


Saudade

by seiyuna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Cohabitation, Eventual Smut, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Dark Continent Arc, and i want to explore the aftermath of emperor time, they're going to kiss alot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 00:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20417081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: In the aftermath of the succession war, Kurapika goes missing.Kuroro tries to find him.





	Saudade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the works that I contributed to our charity [kurokura fanzine](https://kurokura-zine.tumblr.com). I've decided to continue it with more chapters.

Kuroro wakes to blinding white lights, the smell of drying blood and antiseptic, and the mechanical whirr of a machine forcing air into his lungs. A cough tears through him, but the lower half of his face is sealed beneath a plastic mask. His arms are attached to intravenous fluids, so all he can do is lie back on the bed sheets. The slightest flex of his fingers, and an ache in his muscles flare strikingly hot. His skin feels so stretched out that one wrong movement will tear his body apart. 

There’s the sound of the door opening, the pad of subdued footsteps, but Kuroro can barely turn his head to look at the figure approaching his bed. He blinks slowly against the artificial lights until his vision focuses. A slash of black ink marks the man’s cheek, something born of carelessness, or perhaps too many nights spent writing notes and reading them. Stress lines mar his brow, shadows plague the areas beneath his eyes, and when he leans over, Kuroro catches the flash of a name tag hanging from his white coat.

_Leorio Paladiknight._

Kuroro doesn’t make a habit of remembering insignificant names and faces, but the fact that he recognizes the name means something. It’s the glasses. Leorio looks different without his glasses. If he recalls correctly, Leorio isn’t actually a physician, at least not yet, but he withdraws the mask from Kuroro’s face, forcing him to breathe as he once did.

If he didn’t know better, he would be under the impression that Leorio was trying to end him. A breath rasps in Kuroro’s throat, and the subsequent one feels like there’s a blade twisted in his lungs. It’s pathetic, really, how difficult breathing can be. He takes another breath that shakes, and another and another until he gets himself under control.

“How are you feeling?”

It’s not something he would ever expect Leorio to ask, but surely it’s out of duty more than anything. Blood wells up in the creases of Kuroro’s lips when he opens his mouth to speak. “Like I’ve been to the edge of the world and back,” he says, the words scratching against his parched throat. 

“That isn’t too far from the truth.” Leorio sets down a clear plastic cup on the bedside table. Ice chips, although they’re melting already. Kuroro doesn’t reach for them. “If Kurapika didn’t bring you here, you would’ve died from the severity of your injuries.”

Punctured lungs, paralysis of muscles, and then—a deep state of unconsciousness. Leorio divulges these details in an all too clinical manner, as if a year as a student physician had given him the right to do so. The poison had spread rapidly in Kuroro’s blood, inflicted upon him by a guardian beast beyond imagination, so complex that not even a member of the Zoldyck family would be able to withstand it. 

In spite of the severe time constraint, Cheadle Yorkshire collaborated with Geru—the Zodiacs’ Poison Hunter, Leorio explains—to decipher the composition of the poison, ultimately developing an unparalleled antivenin to counteract it. Within a matter of hours, they cauterized his skin, withdrew the bad blood, pumped new blood in, and carefully administered the antidote in hope that he would live. 

Throughout their treatment, they were not deterred by the blood spilled by his hands, the rust on his palms. They did not let him die, because—_because_ of him, Kurapika could live. He became another patient under their care, one with a beating heart but a still mind. 

Kuroro breathes out now, bending his hand at his side, fingers curling into the sheets. It’s a great deal of information to take in. He wills his body to rise, only it won’t listen. Urgency thrums in his veins, replaces the numbness in his limbs, and his body searches for something, _someone_—

“What happened to Tserriednich?”

Leorio looks up from the clipboard in his hands, all of the paperwork from his hospitalization, with unexpectedly grave solemnity in his eyes. “It’s all over now. That was two months ago.”

_Two months ago. _

A wave of nausea washes over Kuroro, the sensation as perplexing as Leorio’s answer. His hands go very still when he releases the sheets, but a faint tremor lives deep beneath his skin, in his bones. Somewhere, within him, he remembers the impact of aura searing muscle and skin, the agony of it bleeding into his body, falling—_falling_ so hard that the ground caved beneath his body—and the world coming to an end in a blinding flash.

But there are quiet, comforting memories too. He returned to consciousness, once, if only for the whisper of a turning page. There had been old books on the table, neatly stacked against a vase of fuschia flowers. A figure by his bedside, reading in silence without asking for a miracle, not even once. A ghost of a breeze billowing white curtains, carrying the scent of crisp rain and wet earth. 

Kurapika had been here, then.

He absently wonders if his mind conjured these images to displace the trauma to his body—because if he truly wills himself to remember, he remembers a frighteningly fond farewell, the warmth of a hand atop his own, still against the white, sterile bedsheets. 

His voice is still hoarse when he asks, “Where is Kurapika?” 

He is the last person this information should be divulged to, but still. Kurapika had clearly gotten off more easily than he did. Was he still by Woble’s side, protecting her along with her mother? Was he traveling the world now, laying the remainder of his brethren to rest?

Leorio sets down his clipboard and moves to the windows, drawing back the curtains to expose the palatial architecture of the Kakin Empire in the afternoon sun. 

“Who knows,” he says after an enigmatic silence, neither distrustful nor unforgiving. “He resigned from the Zodiacs and left just like that, so I haven’t seen him since then. He’s never been that great at keeping in touch.” His tone makes Kuroro curious, but it looks less like Leorio’s being left behind, and more like Leorio moving forward on his own. “You had a few visitors, by the way.”

The flowers on the windowsill, a color as bright as candy floss, make sense now. He has many other questions that Leorio has every right not to answer, but it appears they will have to wait.

“We’ll bring you some proper food and water. Get some rest.”

Leorio leaves him to his thoughts for the rest of the day. 

Kuroro spends the next week under the careful watch and hospitality of the Zodiacs, no matter how bizarre his circumstances seem. Sleep evades him most nights, and he becomes accustomed to staring at the ceiling above, fingers tapping against the bedsheets. He’s surprised by how keenly he feels the absence of Kurapika’s hand on his. 

Kuroro considers leaving through the windows one night, but his body punishes him for that very thought. A sharp ache lingers in his muscles, and it proves wise to be patient. There are no prescribed cures for being alive after nearly dying, for sleepless nights when he spent more than enough time dead to the world, for a yearning towards someone who is nowhere to be found.

Leorio occasionally comes by when Kuroro isn’t being seen by Cheadle Yorkshire, engaging Kuroro as much as his duties enable him to. Through their brief conversations, Kuroro slowly places the missing pieces back together, but gaps still remain. 

Another week, and he finally gets discharged from the facility. He dresses himself in loose clothing that Leorio left on the chair, finding them more comfortable than hospital garments. He chooses not to make any phone calls, not even to thank Machi for her concern, because there is nothing for him to say. 

There had been no victories for him. He lost two months in a deep, endless sleep. He lost more than half of his companions. He never lost Kurapika, though, because he was never _with_ Kuroro in the first place. 

Kurapika had been here one moment, and gone the next.

The first place Kuroro finds himself is the steps of Kakin’s imperial palace—a colossus of yellow roofing, gilded ornamentation, and massive pillars. He doesn’t conceal his approach and he certainly doesn’t expect to be welcomed here. The innermost halls are empty and silent, nearly lonesome without the presence of the other wives and princes, with none of the imperial guards in sight. His footsteps echo as he passes through the hallways draped in elaborate tapestries and illuminated by the gentle glow of lanterns. 

“What business do you have here?”

Kuroro pauses in his steps and slightly turns his head. In one fluid motion, Bill has his weapon drawn, aimed towards him. How curious, that he would remain here despite that two months have passed since the succession war. 

“I’m looking for a friend of yours.”

Bill doesn’t ease his posture, and Kuroro doesn’t expect him to. “Regardless of your intentions, you are trespassing on Kakin family grounds.”

Before he can even attempt to escort Kuroro out, Oito peers into the hallway from another room. Bereft of her simple white robes, she’s adorned in a layered crimson gown that flashes like fire as she approaches them. “Let our guest in, Bill.”

After a moment of hesitation, Bill moves aside. Oito beckons for Kuroro to walk alongside her, and he does. Bill falls into step behind them, keeping his distance as they walk further down the hallway, into a sitting room. It looks more like an office space, with shelves of books against the walls and carefully organized stacks of parchment on the wooden table. While her guards remain by the entrance, Oito takes a seat at one end of the table, posture upright as if she is sitting upon a throne. She gestures with a heavily jeweled sleeve for Kuroro to sit down beside her. 

Kuroro settles into the upholstered chair, folding his hands in his lap. The scent of freshly brewed tea permeates the air the moment Shimano enters the room with a silver tray. Not long after, Woble—or should she be addressed as _King_—follows on her own two feet, doing her best to remain balanced. A phoenix headdress is heavy upon her head, forged in shimmering lines of imperial gold and well-wrought with Kakin’s finest jewels, signifying the royalty in her blood and bones. 

“She’s grown,” Kuroro notes. Though everyone in the room keeps a careful eye on Woble, no one attends to her as she walks. Shimano sets down a teacup front of him and he murmurs his thanks.

“She has.” Oito’s lips curve up in a smile when Woble approaches the table, gazing up at the two of them. She lifts Woble up, with all of the heavy layers of her dress, and sets her on her lap. “What brings you here today? I was uncertain of what became of you after the ordeal with Tserriednich, but I hoped to thank you for your assistance.” Oddly enough, Woble’s face brightens when her gaze meets Kuroro’s own, as if she remembers who he is. “You missed Woble’s coronation.”

“I missed many things,” Kuroro says with a solemn shake of the head. It would be too much of a stretch to say he contributed to Woble’s rise to power, even if he did support Kurapika. “I’m looking for Kurapika.”

Woble makes a soft sound at Kurapika’s name. She reaches out for Kuroro, surprising them both, but the movement makes her headdress tilt, too large and loose upon her head. As Oito adjusts it on her behalf, Kuroro considers the weight of gold upon her hair, the wealth of the Empire before his very eyes. In the past, something so rich and remarkable would have surely fallen into his hands. 

“For what reason?” 

“I need to speak with him,” Kuroro explains, fully aware that her guards are listening to their conversation. “We have unresolved matters between ourselves.”

Worry falls across Oito’s face. “Please don’t tell me—”

“I have no intention of fighting him or hurting him,” Kuroro assures her, despite his past with Kurapika, no secret to her now. “I just would like to speak with him.”

At the heart of everything, Kuroro has not been redeemed. He is not good. He is the same as he has always ever been, but his priorities are different now.

Oito looks at him, her eyes clear and soft. The tension fades from her shoulders as she relaxes in her seat, looking less like a queen and more like an average mother. He is suddenly reminded that she is a woman born from Meteor City and forged in Kakin, all quiet suffering yet burning with compassion.

“Kurapika isn’t here,” she says, although Kuroro expected the answer. “He no longer works for Woble and me. After I compensated him per our initial agreement, he quietly took his leave. He didn’t stay for the coronation either—mentioned that he had personal matters to finish.”

“Do you know where he could have gone?”

Oito shakes her head. “I’m not sure. He didn’t provide information to myself or our bodyguards, not even contact information, but he promised he would visit another time.”

“I see,” Kuroro says. For a moment, he watches his reflection ripple in the clear surface of the tea. He lifts the porcelain cup to his lips, drinking from it out of courtesy. It’s hot and herbal, and while it isn’t coffee, he welcomes the taste after days of lukewarm hospital meals. 

“I wish I could do more for you,” Oito says, looking regretful, “considering the help you provided us a few months ago.”

Woble tries to contribute to the conversation too, but only single syllables and inarticulate words come from her mouth. She stretches her arms out to Kuroro again and this time, Oito leans forward so she can reach him. She is so small, so young, with years of growth ahead of her—and she is the ruler of Kakin’s ancient empire all the same.

So Kuroro treats her with reverence and defers to her quietly. Despite the blood that stains his hands, neither she nor her mother is afraid. This is why he receives Woble in his arms, as carefully as he possibly can, placing her down on his lap.

Kuroro looks down at her with a calm curiosity. She coos, and he finds himself mirroring her smile. She will be written in stories and history books as the youngest ruler of Kakin, the one who will rebuild this empire from quills and parchment. There will be those who threaten her rule, those who try to destroy her throne, but with Oito by her side, surely, the people will come to love her.

“She favors you,” Oito says, smiling against the edge of her teacup. She indulges in her tea while her hands are free of her daughter, fascinated by how she stares at Kuroro without any hesitation. “She doesn’t welcome others very often.”

“Hmm,” Kuroro offers, unsure of why he deserves Woble’s attention. “I’m certain she would prefer Kurapika.”

Kuroro spends the rest of the afternoon in their company, exchanging stories and learning of the news accompanying the new era of Woble’s rule. When he bids them goodbye, Oito reveals she will welcome both Kurapika and himself the next time they visit Kakin. It sounds like a promise. 

Kuroro’s next destination is uncertain, because Kurapika may not even want to be found. Without any leads, he might as well be chasing a ghost. Kurapika may no longer be associated with the Nostrade family, considering the heiress disappeared from his Skill Hunter book. It makes more sense if he ventured off to where homeland once stood, but—

There is no guarantee that he is still there after all this time. The vast forest only lingers as a haze in Kuroro’s memories now. Even if he consulted a map of the world, tried to rely on his memories, it would be difficult to find himself there again. What would Kurapika think if he stepped foot on the lands he desecrated so many years prior? 

His clan knew nothing but the bright skies and vibrant greenery of the forest. Kurapika was raised beneath a dome of peace and secrecy and community, only for unbridled vengeance and indignance to fester in his heart when Kuroro burned his homeland to the ground. His rage eventually simmered, became carefully controlled, but not forgotten. 

Kuroro knows this.

He is possibly oceans away from where Kurapika is, weeks away from that very forest, and yet—he’s going to return to where it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no equivalent in English, but I have read _saudade_ being translated as: the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is lost. 
> 
> I wrote this for the zine last year, but I wanted to continue it with another chapter. I would say that this fic portrays my ideal ending for Kurapika's story where he leads Woble to win the succession war, retrieves the Eyes, and ends up with Kuroro.
> 
> Please leave a comment! I'd love to know what you think. 
> 
> You can also message me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) if you want to talk.


End file.
